Nash studied the map for a long time. “Now, where in the world did this come from?” he muttered. “It’s an exceedingly clever drawing.” Suddenly he lifted his head and whistled. “By Jove, that’s it! It fell from the saddle pocket.”
He examined the saddle, which he had dragged to one corner. Sure enough, there was a pocket under one of the flaps. He drew out several other drawings; one of them proved to be an enlarged map of Camp Forty-seven. Under it was written, in pencil, and partly erased:
“I think his name is Elliot Nash. Let me know positively.”
The signature was obliterated.
Nash returned the papers to the pocket. Then he went back to his chair before the long table, where some blue prints were unrolled.
“I wonder if those maps belong to the girl, or to the person owning the saddle?” he asked himself. “They’re not the kind used by any of the engineering corps. They’re prepared especially on the finest kind of paper. And some one has written my name upon one of them.” He took in a deep breath, and reached for his pencil. “Well,” he mused, “I’ll ask the girl—when we’re better acquainted.”
He was still poring over his figures at ten o’clock, when one the subforemen came hurriedly in with the information that a big water main had burst and threatened to flood out a part of the freshly laid conduit.
“Never heard of such a thing in this weather,” Nash said, catching up hat and coat.
“Came all of a sudden,” the other announced. “The watchman telephoned in. I’ve been trying to get you for the past fifteen minutes, but your wire must be out of order.”
In ten minutes, Nash, accompanied by the man who had brought the news, was upon the scene. The sight was enough to make his blood boil. Several hundred feet of concrete, laid that day, was washed out. He managed to get the water shut off, and then hurried to inspect the pipe. The bright moonlight proved his first suspicions correct.